


the return of post-hardcore punk

by dapatty, Trojie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: 2019 Shrine reunion show, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Collaboration, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: MCR need a drummer for their reunion show. They find one, but there are caveats.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 33
Collections: Pod_Together 2020





	the return of post-hardcore punk

**Author's Note:**

> We're back with more bandom shenanigans! Many many thanks to uglowian for the cheerleading and beta-read! <333

Cover by dapatty

[MP3 (15MB)](https://dapatty.parakaproductions.com/Pod%20Together/The%20return%20of%20post-hardcore%20punk.mp3) | [Mobile Streaming Click Here](https://dapatty.parakaproductions.com/Pod%20Together/The%20return%20of%20post-hardcore%20punk.mp3)

They've been avoiding it on the phone, and in the group chat, and any time they've caught up one-on-one, but when they're all sitting round the practice space, the elephant in the room is just too big not to address.

Ray - as usual - is the one who finally does tackle it. 'Guys. We need a drummer.'

Everyone stares at their feet or the ceiling for a moment in beautiful synchronicity. They haven't lost that ability to be in unison since 2013, at least.

'Yeah, but ... ' Frank starts, and doesn't know how to finish. _But_ they don't have one. _But_ the last three didn't end well. _But_ they all have _feelings_ about it apparently. _But_ it's really short notice. _But_ can't they just - not have a drummer? _But_ … c'monnnnnnn, Ray.

It's not Ray's fault, and he has just as many feelings as the rest of them. But.

Mikey saves Frank from his tailspin. 'But, y'know. We're cursed.'

There's a general murmur of agreement. It's the truth! The ultimate 'but' is that when it comes to percussionists, they're cursed. Frank isn't sure which of them made the crossroads deal that ended in this toll being taken, but it's a fact of their existence.

Some people might call them superstitious. And they'd be entirely fucking right, but Frank would like those people to look at the entirety of 2006 and tell him he's wrong about superstition.

'Frankie -' Gerard starts, and Frank shakes a finger at him. 

'Do not,' he says firmly, 'even look at any of my drummers. Do you know how hard I had to work to get anyone with a sense of rhythm to return my calls? On half my demos I had to _track my own drums_ Gerard. '

'We've all tracked our own drums,' Gerard says, trying to sound offhanded about it but wincing all the same. 

'No, Ray tracked your drums.'

'Mikey -'

'Mikey programmed his own drum machine, there's a difference.'

'Whatever.'

'I don't care. None of mine. Stay away.' Frank makes a little cross with his forefingers in the approved vampire-shunning manner and hisses, and Gerard rears away theatrically.

'Well we need _someone_ ,' Ray says tiredly. 'C'mon, guys, names. Who do we know? We just gotta borrow someone, okay, it's only one show. The curse of being our drummer can't befall someone if they're not Our Drummer, they're just like … on loan.'

'Yeah,' says Mikey. 'Someone with a steady band to go back to.'

'Who aren't touring right now.'

'And who already worked out their stupid internal politics.'

'They gotta have laid down at least two albums, okay, we're not risking anyone new.'

'Agreed. No babies.'

'What about -' Gerard starts, and Ray cuts him off.

'No, he's out, I actually like Spencer Smith, I want him to keep talking to me.'

'No-one from any bands whose fucking fans like throwing bottles at our fans,' says Frank, because that's important. 'We're not having a repeat of fucking touring with Blink, okay.'

'We're running out of options,' Mikey points out glumly, picking up his phone, the eternal Mikey signal for _i'm out of ideas_. 'Maybe we _should_ just buy a drum machine. It's the big new thing in rock, anyway. Even Fall Out Boy are using one, and they _do_ have a drummer.'

Frank, Ray and Gerard all look at him, and at his phone, then slowly they look at each other. 

Ray raises an eyebrow. Frank shakes his head, but it's more because he's questioning their sanity than because he's saying no. Gerard nods vigorously. 

'There is still one option, now you mention it,' he says, and Mikey looks up again. 

His eyes narrow at the sight of their hopeful faces. 'Oh, you better not be suggesting who I think you're suggesting.'

'His band already fucking broke up and got back together! He's got side projects! The curse can't touch him!' Frank says with certainty.

'And the Venn diagram of their fans and our fans is, like, a circle,' Ray points out.

'Plus,' says Gerard. 'He's really fucking good. C'mon, Mikes. Call him? Please?'

'I don't have his number,' Mikey says. He's looking shifty though.

'You could get it in like five seconds flat,' Ray says. 'Call Pete, and tell him to get Andy to call Frank.'

Frank rolls his eyes. 'Am I the HR department? Why is it always me that onboards people?'

'Why is it always me that has to call Pete?' Mikey wants to know. 

'Because you're good at people, and _you're_ good at … Pete,' Gerard says. 'Mikey please? You're already talking to him!'

'You don't know that! And it's beside the point.'

'Mikeyyyyy.'

Mikey sighs and doesn't even need to scroll through his contacts, just thumbs 'call'. Hah. Frank _knew_ he was texting Pete. 'Fine, but I'm putting you on speaker.'

His phone sounds tinny and small as it rings on the practice space floor. They're all sitting around it like it's a ouija board, which feels appropriate. They're trying to summon something, after all. A drummer, not a spirit from the Beyond, but hey. Yelling into the void has always been their aesthetic.

The void, also known as Pete Wentz, picks up after a few rings, and it sounds busy in the background. There's the clink of china and a hissing noise. 'Mikey! Hi! Listen, I'm getting coffee r-'

'Pete. We need your drummer,' Mikey says, and then sits back on his heels and looks at Gerard, Ray, and Frank like _well? I've done my part_ while on the other end of the line it sounds like Pete might have dropped something. Possibly actually his phone.

There's fumbling noises and then 'I'm sorry, you what?'

Crickets.

'Hi, Pete,' says Frank, because no-one else does and it's getting awkward. 'It's Frank. Frank Iero? Uh. I don't know if you heard, but we got the band back together, and -'

On the other end of the line, Pete starts laughing a little hysterically, and then the clattering noise happens again. 

There's some muffled conversation that they can't make out.

The next voice they hear is the softly-spoken one of the very drummer they're trying to summon. 'Hi Frank. It's Andy. Just let me finish pulling this shot and I'll be right with you.'

***

Ray won't stop jiggling his leg and Frank has to squash the urge to reach out and push down on his fucking knee to make him stop. He resorts to a flat look instead of a flattening gesture, and says, 'Dude,' meaningfully.

Ray subsides. 'Sorry.'

'He's a drummer, not your prom date. Chill the fuck out,'

Ray gives Frank a somewhat anguished look, and Frank gets it, he really does, but it's just Andy. They've known Andy for years, for fuck's sake.

There's footsteps outside and Ray's knee starts up again, but it's not Andy that walks in, it's Pete. 

'There are conditions,' he says, putting down the cardboard tray of coffee he's carrying on the table top. 'Hi, by the way. Andy got caught in traffic, he's a little bit behind. Which gives me the opportunity to lay out the conditions without him knowing. That's the first condition.'

'What's the first condition?' Ray asks, blinking. 

'The first condition is that Andy doesn't know there are conditions.'

'Is this coming from Island Records, or what?' Frank asks. 'Because dude, we have a real contract and everything. Did Reprise not send it? I promise, this is above board. We're not going to mistreat your guy.'

'Oh, no, Island already looked over the contract, that's fine. This is coming from us. The band. Mostly Patrick, if I'm honest, but Joe said to tell you 'you break him, you buy him', too.'

Ray looks hurt, which is adorable. 'I thought Patrick liked us!'

Pete laughs, and sits down. He pulls the lid off one of the coffees to add a sugar packet, very slowly. It's incredible grandstanding with very minimalist props, Frank's impressed. 'Whether or not Patrick likes you doesn't mean jack,' Pete says kindly. 'This is Andy we're talking about. Patrick's a little … protective.'

'We're talking about the same Patrick, right?' Frank asks. 'Cute smile, voice like Annie Lennox, four foot nothing in shoes?'

'Look who's talking, Mighty Mouse,' says Pete, which is … fair. 'Yeah, that Patrick. But don't freak out, it's not major. Just a few house rules.'

***

(two days earlier)

_'- I don't know if you heard, but we got the band back together, and -'_

Andy doesn't even look up from the espresso machine when Pete drops his phone for the second time. 'Pete, if you're trying to pimp me out to one of your baby bands, I'm telling you now, I won't do it.'

'It's not a baby band, it's My Chemical fucking Romance,' Pete wheezes, still scrabbling for his phone on the floor. 

When he stands up again, Andy has his hand out. 'Give me. The phone.'

Ten minutes later Pete's still wheezing over a very nice iced latte and Andy hangs up the phone, grinning. 

'So they need a drummer for the reunion show, huh,' Pete manages. 

'Yup.'

'And they called you.'

'Well, they called _you_ , but whatever.'

'Andy. Are you gonna do it?'

Andy snorts. 'Of course I'm gonna fucking do it, moron. They're my friends.'

'Patrick's gonna be weird about it.'

'Well, we just won't tell him.'

'I think he'll probably notice when the footage goes on Instagram, Andy.'

'He won't know if footage goes on Instagram if you stop fucking shoving your phone under his nose every ten seconds.'

Pete sticks his nose up in the air. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'If I have to sneak off in the night to do this, I will,' Andy says, folding his arms across his chest. 'You can't stop me and neither can Patrick.'

'You can't just hitchhike to LA and play a secret show with My Chemical Romance, Andy, it's not 2002.'

'I can and I will. I'm still fucking punk rock.'

'You own a bougie coffee bar and a chihuahua. Two chihuahuas.'

'I'm serious, don't tell Patrick. I'll tell him myself, I promise.'

'You better.'

It takes 24 hours for Patrick to call Pete and shout, which he does for forty five straight minutes, and then be proud, which he does for a further twenty minutes, and then lay out the rules he expects MCR to follow, which only takes about thirty seconds but they're very forceful seconds.

***

'Okay, so in this … Fight Club situation,' says Ray, already all hands because that's how he expresses his feelings and thoughts, with movement, 'what's the second rule?'

'You do _not_ talk about Fight Club,' choruses Frank along with Pete, because some things you just gotta do. Ray gives him a Look. 

Pete cracks up. 'It's what Joe said. You break him, you buy him.'

'Who do you think we are?' Frank asks. 'The fucking Sex Pistols?'

'I'm just saying, if you fucking jump on him while he's playing, I'll end you.'

'How about -'

'If he comes back bruised, there'll be hell to pay, Iero.'

'We'll keep Frankie under control,' Ray promises, which is insulting. Frank cannot be fucking controlled, and he knows Andy wouldn't want him to be. They're both fucking punk rock. They get each other. 

'Rule three is he's not a New Jersey degenerate like the rest of you and he can't just live off pizza.'

'We don't … always eat just pizza,' says Ray. Frank snorts, and gets another Look. 

'Is that it?' Frank wants to know. 'Because that's not so hard.'

Pete kicks his feet up on the table and leans back with his coffee. 'Sure, that's it. Oh, one more thing.'

Andy takes that moment to walk in. 'I need a fucking coffee, LA traffic is bullshit.'

Pete's already lifting up the untouched cup. 'Here's your battery acid. I was just saying I was hoping the boys could find space on the list for the rest of us.'

Andy rolls his eyes, face buried in his coffee. 

'Of course,' says Ray. 'I mean we don't have a list yet, but I assumed you'd all be on it.'

'I knew you were the brains of the operation,' says Pete. 'So that's all settled then?'

'Yeah, we'll meet your conditions,' says Frank, and he means it. He's serious about this, they all are. This is important. They don't take the loan of a drummer lightly.

Andy smiles into his coffee.

***

(two more days later)

Frank is _dripping_ sweat and they've only played all the way through one song. This is awesome.

The drumstick hits him basically between the shoulderblades and he pirouettes on one worn rubber heel as elegant as the very motherfucking ghost of Nureyev, only to slip and end up on his ass. He glares at Andy accusingly. Andy already has another stick in hand to close out the final bars of Cemetery Drive but as soon as it's done he's hopping around his kit to help Frank up.

'Sorry,' Andy says innocently, 'It slipped - sweaty hands, you know how it is,' but his eyes are full of mischief and oh it is _on_ , on like fucking Donkey Kong.

Gerard put together a run sheet of crowd favourites to kinda put Andy through his paces, and Frank spends the length of Na Na scheming and then figures that's not his way and just spits his water bottle coincidentally close to Andy's floor tom during House of Wolves. Some droplets hit the drum skins.

That should be the end of it, given Andy can't leave the drums and his only weaponry is his sticks and he needs those and only has a limited supply of spares. That should have made them square, but Andy keeps staring at Frank. Daring him.

Another stick takes out Frank's mic stand.

The song turns out to contain an unexpected bass solo ten seconds later because Ray ends up hauling Frank bodily off the bass drum instead of playing his actual solo. 

'Dude,' he hisses, shaking Frank by the scruff of his neck. 'The second rule of fucking Fight Club!'

'Keep playing, Toro,' Andy yells over the sound of Mikey, veteran of ignoring more onstage shenanigans than he's had hot dinners, manfully keeping to his bassline and Gerard forgetting words because he's watching the tableau play out. 'Let the chips fall!'

Ray deposits Frank back at stage right with a Stern Dad Look that he's had since he was twenty-six and has only polished and improved since then, and rips straight back into the song. Frank stares after him for a second because goddamn. 

God. Damn. 

And then he notices Andy's making a face at him, and Ray isn't fast enough to stop him this time.

The song _ends_ with Frank and his guitar in an undignified heap in Andy's lap. Andy appears to barely notice the encumbrance: if anything he's more annoyed by the loss of the ride cymbal Frank knocked over on his way, which was theoretically crucial, but he just improvises an ending and then looks down. 

'Comfy?'

'You're made of rocks,' Frank groans. 'I'm going to ask you what the fuck and if you say 'crossfit' I'm going to kill you myself. What the _fuck_ , man, your torso is some kind of Michelangelo shit.'

Andy stretches, puts his sticks down neatly, and then slides Frank off his lap into a little guitar-clutching heap. 'Crossfit,' he says smugly. 'You should look into it.'

***

Gerard, who wasn't privy to the rules of Fight Club, has already ordered post-rehearsal pizza before Frank or Ray can stop him. It's a longstanding tradition, so probably he's a little startled, particularly when Ray Toro, the world's first pizza-based lifeform, protests.

'What?' Gerard wants to know, fairly reasonably. 'I got vegan cheese on half of them, I promise.'

'Andy has _nutritional needs_ ,' Ray hisses just as Andy walks up and stuffs a folded-up slice of pizza straight into his mouth.

He gives Gerard a big thumbs up.

Gerard looks at Ray and Frank with ginormous, confused eyes. 

Frank sighs. 'Either Pete or Andy is fucking with us and I don't know who.'

'I'm not fucking with you,' Andy says, swallowing his mouthful of fake-cheesy bread. 'Pete and Patrick's little rules are cute but I'm not here to _not_ have fun. Let's just do what we do, okay? If you wanted rules you'd have brought a drum machine.'

He grins at them. 'But you want to show the world you're still punk rock, right? I'm here for that.'

'Actually we're post-hardcore,' says Gerard. 'Or something. But fuck yeah!'

***

They meant the identity of their drummer to be a secret, to be revealed on the day of the show, _at _the show just like the setlist and the fact that they're not colour-coordinated for once in their lives, and somehow they have actually managed to prevent it getting out. But it doesn't matter - Frank's Twitter still blows up so hard starting at 4am that he has to turn off all his notifications at breakfast, before he leaves for the venue, and then his Instagram follows suit and in the end he just sends Jamia a message saying he'll see her after the show and he loves her and the kids, and turns his damn phone off.__

__'Is this punk rock enough for you?' Mikey asks Andy after the venue staff inform them just how far the lines stretch around the building. They're getting blankets to take out for the kids because it's fucking cold out there tonight. Andy isn't allowed to go out for obvious reasons and also because Island Records, and apparently also Patrick, might skin them all alive._ _

__Frank snorts quietly._ _

__Andy stretches, grinning. His tattoos shift and pull over his body in a way that will never fail to intrigue Frank even though he's just as inked-up. 'Well, I'm borderline malnourished and some asshole kicked me in the side at the tech rehearsal earlier,' he says. 'That feels pretty punk rock to me. How about you?'_ _

__Mikey shrugs. 'I just hope I don't fucking bomb, man. I couldn't give a rat's ass about what genre we are any more.'_ _

__Andy slings his arm around Mikey's shoulder, and that's when Frank knows they picked right, and this gig is going to be fine. 'You're not going to bomb, dude,' Andy says. 'I got you. We've got this.'_ _

__***_ _

__The curtain rises, finally, and Frank _reels_. He shouldn't! It's not like he actually took a break, at all. He didn't stop performing. Not for a second, not a moment. He's been writing and singing and giving up smoking and bothering Gerard for vocal exercises and - okay he did get hit by a bus that one time but fuck it, that didn't stop him either. In all that time, he's never been allowed to forget about MCR, even when he wished he could. Everything from interview questions he asked to veto, to IM NOT OK (TRUST ME) scrawled in sharpie on venue bathroom stalls. _ _

__And even _he_ had no fucking idea how it would feel when the curtain went up. _ _

__Ray's too professional to fuck up his playing because of a roaring crowd, but the look he gives Frank all the way across the stage behind Gerard's back is panicked and hysterical and exulting. It's magic, too, the way they knit back together again through rehearsals and now, on stage. Frank loves playing with anyone, everyone, but fuck, does he love to play with Ray._ _

__Gerard is in his element, delighted with the crowd and the sound. Frank knows he missed it, for all the worries he had about getting here._ _

__And Mikey?_ _

__Christ, but Frank has missed that crooked little smile._ _

__He whirls on the ball of one foot, too old and decrepit (hah) to spin all the way round like he used to, but he has to salute their drummer for the night._ _

__Andy grins at him, sweating like he's in a sauna despite the fact that he's barely clothed._ _

__And when that fucking G note hits in the encore, he's right there with them, and Frank gets the sense he's not the only hardcore My Chemical Romance fan on stage tonight._ _

__***_ _

__'Dude, seriously, five seconds, let me towel some of this sweat off at least -' says Andy, but Frank is already towing him through the ants-nest of packdown to where security have stashed the real VIPs._ _

__'I'm delivering you back to Patrick myself,' Frank says. 'Undented and in your original packaging.'_ _

__'I can already tell you you're not getting a refund, says Pete, appearing out of nowhere with an uncanny level of stealth. 'What did I say about bruises?'_ _

__Andy pokes his tongue out at Pete. 'I earned these bruises, asshole. Did you enjoy the show?'_ _

__'It was great,' Pete says, actually sincerely. Then he spoils it with 'I'm totally giving my V card to the bass player,' just as Kristin rounds the corner with her kids._ _

__She smiles sweetly at him. 'Didn't you already do that?'_ _

__Frank leaves them to whatever weird Thing they have going on and keeps steering Andy. 'Out of the way, coming through, looking for a guy in a hat,' he says in a sing-song voice as they dodge around the crew and other miscellaneous friends and relations._ _

__'Great set, guys,' says Patrick, and Frank nearly has a heart attack. Men in lilac button-down shirts should not be able to be that stealth. 'Guess I'm going to have to let you borrow him again.'_ _


End file.
